


The Vampire, the Witcher; in the Wardrobe

by mrterzieff_godefroy



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Human/Vampire Relationship, Multi, OC/OC - Freeform, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:55:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27839467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrterzieff_godefroy/pseuds/mrterzieff_godefroy
Summary: Geralt is summoned to Beauclair to find a murderous Beast, but instead he finds friendship, family, and new, terrifying emotions.Regis travels to Beauclair in search of a friend, but complications arise at every turn.What happens when the fates tie two long separated threads in the knitted scarf of life? Geralt can tell you.(This IS a re-written Blood and Wine Reinvented. I'm very sorry)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, OC/OC
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	The Vampire, the Witcher; in the Wardrobe

**Author's Note:**

> You DO NOT have to read the original. This one is much better I promise you.

The will of the world is to land Geralt in the right place at the right time for the wrong reasons. The air of Toussaint was light and fresh, and it carried the scent of raw honey from the roadside hives that the peasants tended to. It travelled down his nose and landed on the back of his tongue, sitting there for but a moment before making its journey back out into the brilliant light through his exhale. This return to Toussaint was but a bittersweet moment in a long line of bad decision making. For with his foot set anew on the soil, the old memories resurfaced, climbing his legs like vines and threatening to overcome his purpose. As always, however, he shook himself from it and leapt from the vines and back into the moment, swaying slightly in his saddle and feeling the weight of his summons darkening his satchel. The ink that stained the paper was laced with dread, and it did nothing to ease his return to this country. The Beast of Beauclair was the strangest enigma and it fell to him to slay it. He had hoped to come here on more pleasant business, but he supposed a witcher’s life was not of that sort. His life was dedicated to following misery, though to some it seemed misery followed him and it took everything in him to hope that was not the case.

A bumblebee brushed across his cheek, a warm and welcome feeling that fed to the fairy tale nature of this place. At first glance, no one would think this the home of gruesome murders, but appearances, like mamunes and dopplers, deceive. Or so an old friend once told him.

“Toussaint! The land of love and wine!” exclaimed Milton as the castle, backed by the looming figure of mount gorgon came into sight. Geralt breathed a sigh into the sunshine, thankful to have been pulled from his own mind.

“Exactly how I remember it.” He hummed in response, shifting his eyes across the horizon and finally landing on Milton’s face.

“You’ll find Beauclair has changed some these past years.” Milton continued, eyes trained ahead on the dirt road with the intensity that Geralt had come to love about the people of Toussaint. “Walk about when you have the chance. You will see for yourself.”

“To me, place always seemed straight out of a fairy tale. Knights-errant, elven palaces – “

“Do you insinuate that we are somehow odd? I shall prove you wrong! This I pledge on the heron!” Milton turned in his saddle to face Geralt, his concentration on the road lost. He raised his arm and gestured with his fist, punctuating the oath, proving Geralt’s point.

Geralt returned to his previous occupation, seeing the sights before work dragged him under and swallowed him whole as it usually aspired to do. It was in that moment that a knight on a horse galloping at a break-neck speed caught his wary eye. The knight dropped his spear from the horse and drew his sword, wrestling the mare around in a tight turn before racing back the way he came. Geralt drew Roach to a halt, taking in the spectacle before him. Milton and Palmerin halted their horses in suit, watching idly as the young knight sped in the direction of a small windmill. It was then that the windmill seemed to explode and a giant appeared in the rubble, swinging a mace and letting a terrible roar claw its way from its throat. The mace hit a chunk of rubble and sent it flying towards Geralt, where it landed not a hair’s breadth away from Roach. His mare spooked, but Geralt urged her on towards his first fight on Toussaint’s soil in years. The giant grabbed the knight’s struggling mare and tossed it. She landed on the dirt with a sickening crunch, her hooves scratching dents into the mud as she struggled to breathe. Geralt looked away. The knight scrambled up from where he’d fallen, stumbling to where his sword lay. He held it weakly in the direction of the giant and Geralt knew it was now or never. He leapt from Roach and unsheathed his sword, pushing through the gate into the small farmyard in which this fight was taking place. His fingers moved dexterously as he cast quen before rushing the giant. He spun low under the giant’s mace as its attention was drawn towards him and slashed at the back of its knees. The elder knights attacked from the direction of the horses, giving Geralt an opening. He sliced the giant’s hip open, and it collapsed to its knees. Geralt jumped on its back, grabbing a fistful of peacock feathers that decorated its helm and plunged his sword into its back, through its spinal cord. His breath steadied as he removed his sword from the mangled corpse of what once was a giant and wiped it on his pants.

“Big beast. Tackling it single-handed? None too wise.” Geralt chastised the younger knight.

“Neither is love born of wisdom, witcher. So, Guillaume, out with it – which fair damsel inspired you to vow to kill this filth?” Milton asked, eyeing the beast with a curious sideways glance.

“The most beautiful among them.” Guillaume replied vaguely, looking up for a moment from the giant’s lifeless eyes to peer at Milton cheekily.

“If he wishes to guard her name a secret, he need not reveal it.” Palmerin announced, fixing Milton with a stern gaze, jaw set. Milton held up his hands in defeat. Guillaume turned to Geralt.

“You I do not know, sir, nor seem you a knight, yet still I am profoundly grateful, nay, indebted to you for your succour. This trophy, sir, is yours.” While Geralt took issue with Guillaume’s assumption that he was not a knight, he did also think that the giant’s head would look pretty decent on Roach’s saddle. Though there was one thing that was bothering him about this ordeal.

“A giant this close to human settlements? Strange.”

“This is no ordinary giant –“ Guillaume began, gesturing to the corpse, “his name was Golyat. Rumoured to have been a knight once, but one who broke his vows. For this, the Lady of the Lake transformed him into a wild giant and banished him into the Gorgon Hills.”

“So he came back down. Why?”

“Several times each year hunger chased him into the lowlands. Golyat had killed and devoured many shepherds. Guillaume’s hunt served a noble cause. At any rate, it’s a tale for more agreeable environs.” Milton said, hinting that it may be time to continue their journey to meet with the duchess. Geralt understood, she was not the sort of person you keep waiting.

“I’ll take this trophy, why not. Could find someone who’ll pay to buy it.” He faced Guillaume levelling him with a questioning gaze. “Put up a good fight against the giant. Got experience fighting monsters?”

“None. In Toussaint, we mostly chase bandits. But I vowed I’d bring my heart’s champion the head of a monstrosity. As the famed Gottfried, known as the Giantkilller did.” Explained Guillaume. Milton grew concerned.

“You don’t mean to hunt the beast, I hope? The matters best left to Geralt.”

“Another challenge awaits me.” Guillaume reassured Milton. “Yet if Geralt is to hunt the Beast, he ought to know - it’s struck again. The river surrendered a corpse. It washed up in the meander by the Cockatrice. Damien de la Tour’s guardsmen are there already, securing the area.”

“Securing the area?” Geralt asked, perturbed. “Better go there now before they trample any tracks, manhandle any evidence.”

“Set forth, then. I shall ride for the city to inform Her Gracious Magnificence that Geralt has arrived. We’ll meet later, near Guillaume’s tent at the tourney grounds. I shall take you then to see Her Grace.” Suggested Palmerin, already walking in the direction of his horse. He and Guillaume raced off towards the palace as Geralt pulled a knife from his belt and made quick work of his new trophy.

As Geralt went to mount Roach, his trophy safely secured on the saddle, a boy from the direction of a farmhouse just up the road reached the edge of the farmyard.

“Mr witcher sir! A letter!” Geralt raised a quizzical eyebrow and took his foot out of the stirrup, meeting the boy at the farmyard fence. He took the letter from the boy and handed over a crown into the kid’s expectant hands before wrestling open the envelope and pulling out the parchment. The letter revealed familiar handwriting and Geralt huffed a surprised laugh at the writing of his son.

‘Dad,

Careful at the lake. Lots of scurvers (ew). Also don’t, for the love of God, put a warm, twitching severed hand in your back pocket unless you want something copping a feel. Also, be wary of the hooded woman in the Cockatrice, it is NOT the innkeep’s daughter. I’ll try to find you as soon as I can.

See you soon,

Cas’

Geralt had expected to see Cas as he seemed to show up everywhere trouble was brewing. Perhaps it wasn’t him who misery followed, perhaps it was just Cas. The day he met him he had brought Ciri back to the keep and the young witcher who was to be his ward alongside Ciri had regaled her with stories and made her laugh for the first time since Geralt had met her. While Cas was amnesic, and had fallen from the sky through a portal, he didn’t let that stop him from being there for Ciri. They had grown up together in the shadow of war and thrived under the witcher training. Cas had helped Ciri through her first blood, washing her clothes and making her medicine, and she had helped him similarly through his own affliction. They were both there when she had awoken on the Isle of Mists, and Cas, having regained his memories through Yen’s intervention, had talked with Ciri about his home. Moving paintings and running water, massed produced items and all the world’s information in your hand. Geralt could scarcely believe what they had talked about. A non-magical world, far more advanced than theirs. At least there was an explanation on how Cas seemed able to predict the future, though Geralt had already attributed that to his affliction.

Milton coughed next to him, eager to get going before they ran out of daylight. Geralt hopped on Roach and they raced off towards the Cockatrice. The air grew awkward and Geralt felt he had to fill the silence, as much as he didn’t care for idle chatter.

“Brave kid, Guillaume.”

“Palmerin oversaw his upbringing. Guillaume is his kin.” Milton answered, turning off the road towards the river.

“Can’t get used to the way you knights talk. Especially how you switch back and forth between flowery and, well, near normal.” Geralt mused.

“We are knights-errant in the service of Her Gracious Magnificence.” Milton explained. “When we appear in her name or speak on her behalf, we are bound by tradition.” Geralt felt Roach’s hooves sink into soft sand and looked out towards the river. “No one here. They must have removed the body already.”

“Let’s look around, make sure they didn’t miss anything.” Suggested Geralt, dismounting and making his way along the river away from the Cockatrice. Heavy boot prints marred the otherwise perfect sand on the shore, leading towards a fisherman’s net.

“Hobnailed boots, multiple sets of prints. Ducal Guard clearly – lets see where they went” Geralt directed Milton over towards where the reeds were highest. “Walked along the shoreline.”

“Perhaps the body lay on the bank.” Milton suggested, trailing Geralt from a respectable distance. The witcher didn’t mind this. On the contrary, he appreciated the care Milton was taking not to damage any evidence.

It was at this moment that Geralt’s sensitive ears were attacked by the tell-tale clicking of scurvers. Just as Cas had warned, the shore behind the reeds was overrun by the ugly bastards.

“Got guests, be careful.” Geralt warned Milton as he drew his silver sword, twirling it at his side. Many witchers, when first beginning to roam, would come across scurvers and treat them as though they were drowners. Geralt knew better, rolling away as they exploded into spikes. With the last one dead, he sheathed his sword, turning back to the river.

“Drawn here by the smell of blood.” The witcher observed. “Let’s keep looking.” The reed bed was full of rubbish. Items people had carelessly tossed in the river only for them to end up on the bank of what could have been a very sightly river.

“Anything taken by the current ends up in these shallows.” He remarked, turning over a worn teapot that had sunk its way into the soil as if to dig itself a melancholy grave.

“Yes.” Replied Milton, taking his handkerchief and holding it to his nose. “The stench is fierce.” Geralt hummed in response, moving his investigation over to where the fisherman’s net lay.

“Footprints, see them?” He asked, pointing at the deep sets of tracks leading to the water’s edge. “And a rut made by the hull of a boat. Left recently, I’d say.” Turning to the side, he fondled a mound of wet cloth sitting by the rut. “Only blood-soaked scraps left of the victim’s clothing. Good quality cloth.” He held out the cloth for Milton to inspect.

“A wealthy victim, correct?” Milton assumed.

“Looks it. Dragged some nets onto the bank, then cut them to untangle them.” Geralt gestured to the pile of nets marring the ground near their feet. The sand beneath them was soaked through with blood so much that it looked like the surface of a liver. “Lot of blood,” Geralt remarked further. “so the corpse must’ve been cut up, quartered, maybe.”

“It’s likely they loaded the body parts onto a boat and sailed off.” Milton deduced, turning to face Geralt for affirmation. The witcher nodded thoughtfully.

“Mhm. Gonna dive in, check the other nets.”




Geralt’s gloved hand wrapped around the handkerchief that had been caught in the Innkeep’s net. He fisted it tightly as if fighting the will of the world to ruin his hard-earned evidence until he could at least get a proper look at it. Tucking it up his glove, he swam to shore, eager to dry off and mount his swords on his back where they belonged. He arrived on the shore to Milton’s expectant eyes and he pulled the handkerchief from his glove.

“Silk kerchief,” he announced, holding it up to the light so that he could finally investigate it, “monogrammed d.l.C. A noble’s accessory, clearly. Be nice to know where they took the corpse.” He mumbled this lowly to himself, as was his habit. Having been on the road so long it was easy for him to forget others company. Milton cleared his throat, making himself known to Geralt’s focussed state.

“What now?” the knight asked, peering curiously at the handkerchief.

“This isn’t the site of the murder we know that.” Geralt began. “Current brought the body here. Corpse got caught in the nets. Guardsmen pulled it out, put it in the boat and took it. Need to find out where. I’d like to look at the corpse before it starts to decompose.”

“The inn- its patrons must have seen the guardsmen; which direction they took. We should ask there.” Milton suggested this in false innocence. Geralt had listened to his stomach rumble the entire way down to the river, but despite his ulterior motives, Geralt did concede that he had a point. His eyes found the bridge, and scanning across it towards the inn Geralt noticed quite a large group had gathered and were whispering behind their hands to each other, excitement and caution thick in the air. There was one, however, that lingered in Geralt’s sight. A woman in a hood who, upon catching Geralt’s eye, retreated back into the inn and out of his wary gaze. He brought his mind back to Cas’ letter and knew his caution was warranted, but the reason behind that continued to elude him.

“Seems we’ve got ourselves an audience.” He grunted, displeased at the morbid fascination of the crowd all jostling to see a witcher at work and a rumoured corpse in the river. He knew their interest was not out of respect for his profession, but more the interest one acquires looking at a rare animal in a circus. Many of these people would spit at him in the street later and caution their children about the heartless mutant.

“You think this surprising?” Milton exclaimed, opening his arms wide towards them. “The locals will tell the children of children they do not have yet of the day a quartered corpse was pulled from the river.” He started over towards the Cockatrice, but Geralt lay a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his food motivated tracks.

“One thing – found a handkerchief in the water. Monogrammed ‘d.l.C’. Mean anything to you?” The witcher asked. Milton’s face dropped, smile sliding off his chin and into the abyss.

“De la Croix? It cannot be. Was it he the Beast slew?”

“Seems so. Knew him well?” Geralt watched Milton’s sad nod and an ache began in his heart and travelled to his throat. He knew too well what it was like to lose a friend.

“Long past. We were close friends, once, but our paths diverged. He was a man of extremes, standing by his companions no matter the odds, fighting to the bitter end.” Milton reminisced and pawed at the handkerchief resting in his hand.

“Foes – he have a lot of them?” Geralt tried to ask this tenderly but really in what way could that sentence ever be tender.

“He did,” the knight explained, his hand clutching the handkerchief fell to his side as he turned to face Geralt, resolve setting his jaw, “but I do not see what that has to do with the Beast. Ah, Geralt, you’ve struck a raw nerve. Memories of a time long past to which I’d rather not return now.”

“I understand. We can talk later. Let’s go to the tavern.” Geralt put a guiding hand on Milton’s shoulder and hoped he would take some comfort in the witcher’s presence. They began their trek up the sandy hills to the Cockatrice, leaving the prying eyes of the patrons melting the sand on the beach.

“I shall have to leave you soon. Return to court.” Milton announced as they reached the tree line.

“Barely got back to Toussaint.”

“A knight in the service of Her Illustrious Highness knows no rest. In fact, I’d feared I would return too late to fulfil my duty. Yet it seems I’ve arrived in the nick of time.” Milton’s voice was considerably more cheery when it came to this topic and for that Geralt was glad. “Once you have finished examining the corpse, be sure to report to Anarietta.”

“Anarietta?” Geralt asked.

“Her Grace, the duchess. I forget myself at times. We address each other by our first names in private. Never in Palmerin’s presence, however. He finds such familiarity offensive.” As the front of the tavern came into sight, Milton’s step acquired a sort of bounce characteristic of a hungry man smelling his motivation. “A watering hole for traders, smugglers, boatmen. But you’ll find no better crayfish chowder in all Toussaint.” He announced. Ah so that’s what you’ve been so eager to get in there for, Geralt thought as he hid a small amused smile behind Milton’s back. “By my troth!” Milton exclaimed as they entered, the cool dark tavern giving them a much needed reprieve from the sun’s unforgiving beams. “Could that be the musty scent of fresh pâté?”

“Naught else, Sir de Peyrac-Peyran. I see time has not dulled your senses.” He was answered by a man wearing noble clothing, sitting in the corner of the inn by the fire. This man was joined by another in similar garb and their table was laden with fresh fruits and warm buttered toast. Geralt may have to admit even he was a little hungry.

“We would be honoured if you would join us.” The second man offered. “Your companion as well.”

“But why do I not detect even a whiff of crayfish chowder?” Milton asked, offended.

“No soup today, on account of there being no crayfish.” The innkeep responded in a slow drawl, turning to face them from his place at the fire. Geralt and Milton took their seats at the low table and Milton removed his helmet, the comically large feather bouncing. “I reckon you’ve not heard, but all I caught was a corpse! I awoke at the crack of dawn, as I do each day, but when I looked up, I beheld a blood red sky…”

“The corpse,” Milton revealed, “is precisely why we’re here. For the man whom you’ve invited to join you at your table was summoned from a far-off land by Her Gracious Magnificence. He is tasked with tracking and killing the Beast.”

“We invited two men to join us, yet since Sir de Peyrac-Peyran is in temperament more akin to hare than hound, I surmise the other is the hunter.” The first noble deduced. Sliding what Geralt thought was a not too sly jab at Milton into the conversation. It didn’t seem like the elderly knight minded, but if this was the reputation of the knights-errant perhaps there was something amiss in the duchy. “With whom do we have the pleasure?” asked the nobleman.

“Name’s Geralt.” He offered simply, hoping to perhaps move the conversation along to more pressing matters, like the river corpse for example.

“A humble introduction. You’ve clearly not tarried long with Sir de Peyrac-Peyran.”

“Spare us the petty insults. Geralt is a master of the witchering trade. He has questions concerning the Beast’s last victim.” Thank Melitele for Milton Geralt thought, having begun to tire from the men’s pestering. The innkeep spoke up, making his way over to the table.

“I was the one to find the corpse. The sun has just arisen when I awoke, sat straight up in my bed, looked out the window and beheld a sky red a blood-“

"Ask, Geralt, please. Or we shall be here till winter.” Geralt was glad that Milton appeared to share his own distaste for the new company and the small talk that came with it. He turned to face the innkeep.

“Must’ve been early in the morning. Went to check your nets then…?” The witcher probed for information, seeing the tale practically bursting from this man’s face. Almost as though this is the first interesting thing that has ever happened to him.

“I stepped out of my hut and saw…” He began, excited.

“By my troth!” the elder night interrupted. “To the point, man! You found a body ensnared in your crayfish nets. We know this already. What happened then? Did you see anyone nearby? Did you spy anything noteworthy? Anything at all?” The innkeep hummed thoughtfully arms crossed over his chest.

“Not a soul around, just me. As for noteworthy… hmm… well..”

“What did you see? But we warned – if I hear the sky was red again…” Warned Milton. The innkeep’s face contorted as if the answer was rolling around his mouth and finally it spluttered out like a foul smelling dam breaking into clear water.

“I saw… a head, bobbing – eyes bulging, the tongue blue and popped out. Next to it, a hand rocking upon the water.”

“Get a good look at the body parts?” Geralt asked. He was met with a gag from the nobleman next to him. Perhaps this wasn’t what they considered polite meal chat in Toussaint.

“They gave me such a fright, I bolted to town fast as my legs would take me, then returned with guardsmen who told me to keep out of their way. They had a hard haul. The parts were so tangled up in my nets, they were forced to cut them.” Geralt wondered idly if the guards would reimburse the innkeep for his nets, but he was not in the habit of giving anyone – particularly guards – the benefit of the doubt.

“Need to examine the body. Know where they took it?” He asked. The innkeep scrambled to continue his tale.

“They ferried it across, the loaded it onto a cart and hauled it to a cellar at Corvo Bianco. To keep it cool, see.”

“What?” Exclaimed Milton, offended by something Geralt had no notion was offensive. “Why, Corvo Bianco is Baron Rossell’s estate! When he learns they’ve turned his cellar into a morgue, he’ll set his hounds on them!” It was at this moment that movement caught Geralt’s eye and he swivelled his head slightly to watch as the hooded woman from before made her way towards the door. It was then that a pale hand shot out of the bright Toussaint light and pushed her firmly into the doorframe.

“Going somewhere, Ava?” A tall man stepped into the shadow of the inn, trailing twin swords and hair as white as his own.

“Cas.” She said shortly, peeling his hand from where it had landed on her sternum. “Where I go is none of your business. What are you doing away from your mate? Shouldn’t Koel keep you on a tighter leash?” Cas snarled, snapping his hand to her shoulder, trapping her.

“You know damn well he doesn’t own me. I have my own life and trade to ply. I’m not just going to sit around looking pretty.”

“Pity. I might’ve cared about what you had to say if you were prettier. Bring Koel next time and you might pull some weight, bitch. I’ll see you around.” Geralt watched as the tension in Cas’ neck and shoulders dissipated when Ava was finally out of view, turning to the table and smiling feebly.

“Hey guys. What’s up?” Cas greeted, offering a small wave to the group. He walked over and Geralt stood to greet him, pulling him into a hug. Cas wrapped one arm around Geralt’s back and rested his chin on his shoulder briefly before pulling back. “Hey, dad. Good to see you.”

“Cas. How’d you find me?” Geralt asked, taking his seat again. Cas pulled a stool over from a nearby table, joining the circle.

“I’ve been loitering around the Cockatrice for a week. Saw Roach out the front. She holding up alright?”

“She is. Thinking about buying her a new saddle.” He turned to Milton, gesturing to the elder knight. “Cas this is Sir Milton de Peyrac-Peyran. Milton, this is Cas.” Milton extended his hand across the table.

“Another witcher? Are you here to help with The Beast?”

“I could I guess. Gotta pop back to camp for a bit after this but I’ll be around.” Cas looked to Geralt for confirmation.

“Hmm. Probably could use the help. So who was that? Woman who just left?”

“Ava. She’s a drinking buddy.” Cas answered shortly, rubbing his arm absently.

“Didn’t seem too friendly.” Geralt pressed, unsure of Cas’ discomfort on the situation.

“She’s not. But hold that thought, I thought I heard you talking about Baron Rossell’s estate. He owed me money.”

“It’s no secret the baron had gambling debts up to his ears.” The first noble interjected. Savouring his chance to pass on gossip to Geralt’s unwilling ears. “It finally came time to collect – his creditors auctioned off his property. The Ducal Chancellery bought it, in fact. Rossell now bunks with his brother in Vicovaro.” Milton shook his head grimly.

“I told Rossell he’d get his comeuppance. How long can one draw on past heroics?! His creditors must finally have divined that his promises meant nothing.”

“Rats. Really? He owes me fifty-two crowns. I wrote it down. Bastard.”

“Such are the times. Today’s knights are pale shadows of the heroes of yore.” The second noble snuck a scathing glance at Milton whose mouth was set in a hard, unappreciative line.

“It’s true what they say – gods sent the Beast to punish us for straying from the old paths!” Geralt hummed at the innkeep’s contribution.

“There’s a lady who freaks out about that daily at the tourney grounds.” Cas offered, locking eyes with Milton perhaps in the hope that it would prompt him to do something about it. “It’s scaring the peasants.”

“So folk think the Beast’s divine punishment?” Geralt deduced, turning back to the nobles.

“Knights have turned their backs on the old customs. Where they were defenders of the duchy, they’re now defenders of their own tushes…” The innkeep elaborated. Milton ground his teeth and rose in his seat, slamming his hands on the table.

“Why you insolent…!” Geralt laid a hand on Milton’s forearm, fixing him with a stern gaze.

“Let him talk.”

“The duchess trades in titles, grants honours to ill-doers. We’ve strayed from the path of virtue, lost the gods’ favour, so the gods sent retribution.”

“Don’t listen to that nonsense, Geralt.” Milton warned, wearing his offense at the innkeep’s opinion clearly in the furrow of his brow. “It’s rehashed street preacher codswallop.”

“Yes, the rabble-rousers have been sprouting like weeds lately. Each offering the same bill of goods.” The second noble agreed. Cas hummed.

“Peasant superstition rarely finds confirmation in reality. Except when it does. It would do well to keep it in mind.” Geralt stored that away in agreement. Peasants are not stupid. They often, Geralt thought, see patterns that nobles are often too privileged to see.

“They say anything else about the Beast? Besides it being a messenger of the gods?” He probed.

“The Toussaintois are no fools.” The first noble offered. “They see clearly the Beast kills on days honouring patron saints.”

“Picky monster.” Geralt remarked, glancing to his side to see Cas’ thoughtful face.

“Sentient. And clever at that.” Cas hummed idly. Geralt knew that Cas was trying to walk him to a conclusion, but unfortunately for Cas you can walk a Geralt to clues but you can’t make it have an epiphany. The elder witcher turned to the innkeep.

“Thanks for the hospitality. Time I examined the corpse. Coming Cas?”

“No, I gotta head to camp real quick but I’ll find you later.” Geralt hummed in acknowledgement. They’d have a talk later. He got up to leave.

“Corvo Bianco lies a short way from here, near the tourney grounds. Just follow the road and you’ll arrive.” Milton stood, also intending to leave.

“Not coming with…? Oh yeah, duty of some sort calls.” Geralt remembered. Milton’s face lit up with the mention of it.

“’Some sort’ – hah! Her Grace bestowed a great honour on me even before we departed for Velen. I’m to play the Hare during this year’s game in the palace gardens. When you see me in my costume, you will wet yourself laughing!” The knight announced with a grin big enough for the both of them.

“A little tempted to ask a few questions, but it sounds like a long, complicated story. One involving lengthy digressions into local history and tradition… So, see you later Milton. And good luck.” He clasped Milton’s hand firmly and turned to go, but was stopped by a small tug on the end of his scabbards.

“Here take this.” Cas handed him a potion bottle. Cas had never been very patient with potions, the preciseness of brewing them or the way you had to watch it carefully while it brewed. If he had taken the time to make this correctly, Geralt wondered what was in store for him.

“Black blood?” He questioned, pocketing the bottle.

“Take it before you go into the cellar at Corvo Bianco. She’s a slippery one, but she’s thirsty and sloppy. Good luck.” Geralt nodded shortly and clasped Cas’ hand momentarily before finding himself back in the brilliant sunlight and on his way to Corvo Bianco, Roach in tow.




In the short walk to Corvo Bianco Geralt’s mind swum with the memories of previous stays in Toussaint. The druids of Caed Dhu, Dandelion and the duchess, his eventual attempted execution, Regis. His heart clenched around the memory and made itself painfully known. The higher vampire who would stick his hand in a fire to convince peasants that he was a demigod, that feared werewolves – though they posed him no threat – and could satisfy a succubus for weeks. While that last part was impressive by any account, Geralt couldn’t help by feel uncomfortable in the presence of said memory. He was broken, rather rudely, from his absent mindedness by the sounds of panicked horses. He peered off into the distance in time to see a horse in a ducal guard saddle run away from what could only be Corvo Bianco with its tail on fire. He dropped Roach’s reins and broke into a sprint towards the sound of what could only be described as a blood bath. As he pulled up to the stable in front of the house he could tell that there had been some type of monster attack. The guards that had been stationed to the morgue were lying where they had been posted, some killed too quickly to even draw their swords. Some guards lay with their necks torn out, others had been ripped in half with incredible strength. The bruxa from before. Ava. He walked through a sea of entrails and blood towards the cellar, popping open the vial of black blood and downing it in one quick motion. A guard holding onto the notion of life grappled at his ankle as he pulled himself up the stairs, legs broken, ribs caved in. He breathed his last onto Geralt’s boot and the witcher gritted his teeth, moving forward. He entered a cool lower room on the left side of the cellar, and unsheathed his silver sword. The bruxa was standing before the body, which was placed in an alcove carved into the side of the cellar, digging through it, searching.

“You.” Geralt started, grabbing her attention. “Saw you at the inn.” She picked up a hand, sniffing it, satisfied, she turned to him and greeted him with a wide, fanged smile. She was bloody from navel to chin, but Geralt had seen vampires who had drunk for nourishment before. This was just fun. “Why’d you kill these people?” The witcher continued. “Clearly wasn’t for their blood.”

“You’re right,” she said sweetly, smearing the blood on her lips in a feeble attempt to wipe some away, “I figured I’d have plenty to drink with you here.”

“You’re Ava, right? Saw you talking to Cas earlier.” Geralt pointed out, slowly circling away from her.

“Ah yes, the bitch. Doesn’t know when to keep his trap shut, or when to know his place. It’s so dreadfully human. Little bitch thinks he can do what he wants because Koel doesn’t control him like he should. The tribe would be better off if he left his night job of warming our leaders cock and tried other things.” Geralt’s mouth twisted in disgust. It would be vulgar – and rude – for her to say that about anyone but Geralt did not need those visualisations about his son.

“I don’t know what your problem is with Cas, but maybe you should take it up with him. We don’t have to fight.” He circled back towards her and she gave him a wide berth in return.

“You are wrong.” She stated simply, turning to mist and rushing for the door. She materialised in front of it, bending the metal to jam the door with her hands. Her body hardened and twisted, from the image of a beautiful lady, to what Geralt could only describe as if you tried to make a whole corpse into jerky. “I cannot let you leave.”

She lunged for him, turning to mist. Geralt held his sword in both hands, lowering his stance. He spun slowly, keen eyes watching for a sign. There! A shadow! He reached for a moon dust bomb and hurled it at her. She screamed as it hit its mark, exploding into fine silver splinters that dug into her skin, keeping her in the witcher’s sight. She moved her arm to scratch him and Geralt ducked under her extended limb and brought his sword to her side, slicing as he moved. She snarled and clutched at her would, turning to him and lunging again, this time he feinted and she wrapped two strong legs around his midsection and sunk her fangs into his neck. He groaned in pain, scrabbling with one gloved hand at the back of her head. As soon as the blood hit her tongue, however, she dropped to the floor, writhing the screeching. Geralt held his hand to his neck as he fell to his knees, watching her as the black blood tore her apart from the inside. He scrabbled for a bottle of sparrow and a bandage he kept in his satchel, tying the bandage tight around his neck and forcing the swallow down through the pain. Black blood may be effective, but the aftermath was always gruesome. Ava’s body lay on the floor twisted and deformed, blood pooling from her mouth and from her side. He doubted Cas would want to give her a proper burial. He turned his attention to the body of interest; Count de la Croix.

“Ugh. Stinks. Water-logged, both hands amputated. Body was quartered, just as I thought. Laid in the water for some time. Head’s swollen, and something took a few bites out of it. Hm. Something in the throat.” He probed the bulge with his fingers and promptly reached down the victim’s throat to retrieve the fruits of his curiosity. “A pouch. Bulging with coins. Nilfgaardian florens… from several different provinces. If the murderer did this, means we’re dealing with a sentient, thinking beast like Cas said.” He moved on to the body, looking closely at where the body had been cut. No bruising. “Body was cut up after death. Blows struck with great force, but bones sliced through, not crushed. Creature that killed him had long claws, sharp as a witcher’s blade. First sank its claws into the victim’s heart. No bruxa did this.” Moving to the hands he noticed something odd. Two matching hands, belonging to the victim, and one bigger, separate hand. It bore a beautiful ring that Geralt was almost tempted to take for himself, but best not to take from a warm, twitching monster hand. It had sharp nails, almost characteristic of Cas’ affliction… “Third hand. A spare? Clearly not the victims. Guardsmen must’ve noticed it as they picked everything up.” The hand twitched in his grasp, the fingers curling in and flexing out again. “How’s this possible? Still warm. Blood’s still flowing? Several monster species can regenerate. Never heard of that happening to their severed limbs, though. Or of the limbs seeming completely alive after all this time. Examine the tissue more closely later. Might learn something.” He put the hand in his satchel, feeling concerned and affronted that it could still grab. “So murderer was clearly a monster, but not a bruxa. But then why’d the bruxa come here for the severed hand? And who does the hand belong to? Why the hell’s it still warm? Now, pouch shoved down the victim’s throat – what’s the significance? And why was he chopped up into pieces? Lots of questions, no answers so far. Need to know about the other victims. I’ll ask Palmerin to get me in to see the duchess.” He concluded his examination and stepped away from the alcove. He should probably go find Roach since he’d left her in such a hurry. He hummed to himself and walked back to the entrance of the cellar. This might be more than he bargained for.




Cas snuck quietly into the cave, removing his boots to tread ever so lightly around the sleeping form of his lover. Koel lay on a pile of blankets, his long black hair sprawled across the nest and his face. Cas longed to push the hair away from the tired vampire’s face, nimble fingers skirting lightly over perfect pale skin but to wake him now would defeat the purpose of this visit. But still to see his dark eyes flutter open and the soft sleepy smile to bubble up from somewhere warm in his chest. To see him take the witcher’s hand and kiss the palm sleepily. Cas’ core yearned for that, but instead he grabbed a bag of seed and a precious gem and stuffed them into his satchel for later. The witcher held his boots tightly to his chest and crept back around to the cave entrance, taking one last look at the vampire’s lovely figure before stepping out into the forest. He made it a fair way down a dirt road towards Beauclair before wrestling his boots back on and treading back to where he’d left his horse.

“Hey Honey Bunch. Where’s my good girl?” He cooed at the mare, bringing his arm up to gently pat at her neck under her mane. He felt her warm coat next to his cheek and breathed a contented sigh. She was a good girl. She’d followed him all the way from Kaer Morhen after the wild hunt attacked and she’d stayed by his side since. “You better get along with Roach, sweet girl.” He warned this half heartedly, not willing to give Rhea, who had walked up behind him, the satisfaction of his attention.

“Cas I know you heard me. C’mon we need to talk.”

“Rhea I can assure you I don’t care.” He turned to face the bruxa in all her naked glory. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her mouth was set in a thin, hard line or disapproval.

“Mating season will be here soon and – “

“Gah! Enough about mating season god damn. It’s a big deal, I get it, you’re mad I cut my hair, you’re mad I go and do whatever I want, you spread rumours to Ava.”

“Hair is sacred Cas you don’t just cut it! Vampires aren’t like humans it’s a part of your corporeal form, not just a protein! And yeah you’re shitty at being what you are, you should be in there napping with Koel and instead you’re… what are you doing?” Cas huffed and went to check his girth. He stuffed a hand in between it and Honey’s stomach and knelt down to tighten it.

“I’m going to meet with an elder who took up residence near here. And for your information, I keep my hair in an undercut because of my profession. I don’t want hair in my face when I’m killing things. I also happen to know that plenty of other groups do cut their hair. I respect that to you hair is important, but don’t tell me how to dress my own temple. And yeah, I get that mating season is near or whatever but I don’t even know what’s meant to happen then and when I ask Koel he gets all flustered and when I ask you or anyone else I get laughed at so forgive me if I’m not adhering to traditions no one bothered to tell me about.” He finished tightening the girth and stood, turning to face Rhea whose brow had furrowed impossibly more.

“We don’t speak of it outside of mating season.”

“Well whoop-ti-doo. When I find out what to do I’ll do it but until then I’m not just going to idle in a cave for a week until you can speak on it.”

“It’s not safe out there for you. If it starts and you’re elsewhere it won’t be good for you. You could meet some bad people.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo in the sexual assault division Rhea. I’ve met bad people. But they’ve also met me. Don’t tell Koel that.”

“I won’t if you aren’t out when it starts.”

“When does it start?”

“I can’t speak of it outside of the season.”

“That’s a problem.” Cas mounted Honey and flipped the reins over his left hand, turning her towards Beauclair. “I’ll see you later Rhea. Tell Koel not to wait up.”




It seemed to Geralt that he had stumbled into quite the festival. The roaring crowd in the arena stung his ears and made him dizzy but he trudged on to where he was meant to meet Palmerin. He found him by the admission line, surrounded by eager children. He leant against a large rock, visor up and grinning as he told a tale to the local youth.

“With his friends at his side, Guillaume bested Golyat and restored peace to the land.” Palmerin ended the story, turning to Geralt.

“Need to speak to the duchess. Urgently.” The witcher announced, shifting foot to foot. He was eager to get this over with. Audiences with royalty? Never goes well.

“All right, you scamps. Story’s done. Go find you parents.”

“But Sir Palmerin!” one of the children interrupted, “what about the story of Riddick and the dragon?” Palmerin laughed lightly, a sound reserved, Geralt thought, for children.

“That tale’s for another time. But take a good look at the man who stands before you now. This is Geralt of Rivia, the master witcher who lent his valiant hand to the defeat of the giant Golyat.” The children turned to him in wonder and a little girl shy spoke up.

“Master witcher, is it true virtue always trumps villainy?” Gods, how many times had he been posed that exact same question. He thought on it for a minute before answering.

“Not always. Could go either way. Sometimes virtue wins, sometimes villainy gets the upper hand. Still worth being good.”

“But why,” the little girl asked, “if it doesn’t mean you’ll win?”

“Palmerin’s story – think back. A decent man attracts other good folk, makes friends he can count on. A rogue, well, he can only count on other rogues. And who would you rather have for a friend?”

“A man of virtue?” A chubby kid asked tentatively.

“I must agree.” Palmerin admitted. “Now, that will do for questions. Go find your parents.” The kids dispersed running off to tell their parents, no doubt, about Palmerin’s story. Palmerin walked closer to Geralt. “Her Enlightened Highness has doubtless arrived at the tourney grounds to watch the battle in the arena. If we hurry, we’ll be in time to speak with her before the spectacle begins.”

“Lead the way.” They began their trek around the arena to the knights entrance past the training grounds. It was little more than a dusty circle and a few dummies, nothing like the training at Kaer Morhen. “Who’s fighting?” the witcher asked, “Nilfgaardian gladiators?”

“Close,” Palmerin teased, “but not quite. As you will soon see.” He lead Geralt to the back of the arena and it was there Geralt spied it. Two men were wrestling with a shaelmaar’s tail, keeping it still to attach bells to it. How they even got it here was a mystery to the witcher, but this was undoubtedly cruel.

“Someone’s gonna fight a shaelmaar? With only some bells on its tail to confuse it, slow it down?”

“Whatever is the problem?” the knight questioned, “The beast is a gift, from the emperor, no less.” The shaelmaar thrashed its tail and whined, curling up on itself like a big rock.

“Shouldn’t torment the beast. How would you like to be dumped in an arena, blindfolded, with a string of bells dangling from your ass?”

“Pity a monster? You? A witcher?” It struck Geralt then that Palmerin knew very little about witchers and the witcherly trade. Surely education about his profession wasn’t as misrepresented here as it was in other lands. Though Geralt was not one to hold out hope for that.

“I slay monsters who are a threat to humans. You’re out to humiliate one to entertain a crowd. No knight’ll gain any glory from this. Who’s going to fight the beast?”

“Guillaume – the young man you met.” Palmerin admitted, stiffly.

“Yeah, mentioned he’d promised his heart’s captor a monster trophy.” Hardly romantic Geralt thought, particularly the process of preserving the head. Gruesome.

“Great love demands great sacrifices.” Always the romantic Geralt thought snidely. He looked around for the entrance and started out towards the wooden staircase.

“Lets go.” As the witcher and the knight made it to the parapet, trumpets begun to play and Guillaume dressed in golden armour sauntered into the arena. He held his sword and shield high as if he had already won and paraded around the edge of the arena before finally settling on the ducal booth, kneeling and presenting his sword.

“I dedicate my imminent victory to fair Lady Vivienne!” He announced. The duchess’ lady in waiting shifted uncomfortably in her seat while the duchess gave her a knowing smile, giggling under the façade of perfection. Guillaume stood and faced the shaelmaar, spinning his sword in hand for show.

“It’s begun.” Palmerin announced. “The fight shall have to end first. We must wait.” Geralt leant over the bannister and watched as a guard with a polearm poked the shaelmaar in the backside to prompt it to move. The poor creature stumbled out of the small cage and fell face first into the dust. It recovered and, confused, made its way around the edge of the arena. The bells on its tail jingled as they passed over some rocks and the shaelmaar lunged for the sound, falling on the ground again. Humiliating. Geralt looked away, unwilling to watch the shaelmaar be bullied for the fun of these people. When he looked back, Guillaume had rushed forward with a yell, slashing at the sensitive skin on the shaelmaar’s front leg.

“Got a bad feeling about this.” Geralt mumbled to Palmerin. The shaelmaar stood on its hind legs and screeched. Guillaume yelled again (idiot) and ran at the creature. It jumped, swinging its tail around to hit the knight out of the way. Guillaume took the blow to the chest and was hurled back along with one of the bells which hit the wall with a clang. The shaelmaar heard this and rolled towards the sound. Guillaume, now just barely on his feet, dodged the attack and the shaelmaar crashed into the wall, falling on its back. It screeched and writhed as the duchess gave Guillaume a standing ovation. Vivienne was still looking away. Perhaps this offended her too. Distracted by the cheers of the adoring crowd, Guillaume didn’t notice the shaelmaar stand, its tail slipping from the clamp that held the bells. “Dammit.” Geralt exclaimed as Guillaume bashed his sword and shield together to delight the crowd. Did no one give this boy a rundown on how shaelmaars see? The creature screeched at the sound and commenced its rolling attack. Guillaume had barely the time to raise his shield before the shaelmaar crashed into him. It hit him full force and he flipped over, losing both sword and shield. The duchess gasped in horror and Geralt’s resolve steeled. “We have to help him.” The witcher decided, jumping the barrier into the arena. Palmerin followed, albeit more slowly, and they readied themselves for the battle. Geralt drew his silver sword, twirling it once in hand and lowering his stance. The shaelmaar sensed the vibrations from his jump and rolled towards him. Geralt waited, legs engaged to jump out of the way. As he jumped he could feel the shaelmaar’s breath on his face, too close. Way too close. The beast hit the wall and fell onto its back like a stuck beetle and Geralt took this chance to injure the exposed skin on its stomach with three precise blows, it writhed and stood, screeching. It fell back down, unable to fight for its injuries. Geralt stood in the centre of the arena, disgusted, but the crowd had never been louder.

“The shaelmaar lies defeated by Geralt of Rivia, master of the witchering trade! Behold as the last gasps of life seep from the beast!” The announcement guy yelled over the crowd. The duchess made her way to the front of the ducal booth and addressed Geralt.

“Master Geralt, do what you must! Finish the deed!” The crowd roared and Geralt was faced with a dilemma. On one hand killing the creature would make its suffering end, there’s mercy in that, but on the other hand, the witcher didn’t want to be the one to decide its fate. The is also mercy in sparing it. He huffed and sheathed his sword.

“Monster’s no threat! No need to kill it!” he explained over the crowd’s impossible noise. The announcement guy wasted no time in singing Geralt’s praise, much to the witcher’s disgust.

“A victor may always show mercy! It is his right! Long live Geralt the Merciful!” Geralt didn’t feel merciful, though. Would this monster just waste away making shows for humans to enjoy? He felt sick. “Pikemen, see to the beast!” the announcer yelled over Geralt’s thoughts and two men with pikes came out to surround the poor thing. So the torture continues. The trumpet signalled the end of the battle and Palmerin rushed to Guillaume’s side. He was laying on his side in the dirt, rolling around in pain. Palmerin put his hands under the boy’s arms and heaved him up, slinging the younger knights arm over his shoulders.

“Guillaume?” Geralt questioned, turning to face them.

“The lad came damned close to dying.”

“I’m… fine… not hurt at all… Vivienne…?” Guillaume muttered through pained breaths. Palmerin leaned close to the boy’s ear and whispered lowly.

“Smile as befits a hero and keep silent. Speech clearly pains you. She approaches.” The duchess made her way onto the arena floor, walking slowly and with dignity as she always did in Geralt’s memories.

“Geralt… we must… talk… Vivienne…” Guillaume forced out, struggling to say something Geralt couldn’t quite understand.

“You shall talk later.” Palmerin instructed. “In the medics tent.”

“Geralt!” the duchess greeted, “Magnificent! Breathtaking!”

“Your Grace…” He greeted in return, offering a small nod that he’d hope would pass for a bow considering he had never managed to perfect that.

“We knew that to summon you was a brilliant idea! We are delighted, ravished, to have struck upon it. “

“And I’m truly… uhh, honoured…” he offered meekly, unsure of what to say.

“See to our young hero – hop hop!” She instructed her ladies in waiting. “For we must make off with Geralt. We should talk.” The ladies walked slowly to Guillaume, helping Palmerin to make a smooth exit with the young knight. “We had been long awaiting your arrival, had nearly lost hope. Then suddenly – that entrance! So spectacular!”

“Your Grace,” Geralt begun carefully, “shaelmaars’re dangerous creatures, even to knights in full plate armour.”

“Nonsense.“ She laughed. “In Toussaint, knights have battled beasts for mere glory since time immemorial. True, Guillaume suffered a few bumps, scars and bruises, but in return gained eternal glory as he who slew the monster.”

“Mhm. What about the crowd? Say the shaelmaar had vaulted into the stands. Would’ve been a massacre.”

“Geralt, though we value your fortuitous intervention in the arena, we would remind you your services have been retained, and, as shall soon become clear, you will be generously compensated – for completing another task altogether.” Geralt hummed and the duchess smiled sweetly, hoping to drop the conversation for good.

“Your Grace, my contract – I’d like to discuss it.”

“Naturally. But not here.” She moved closer to the witcher, looking out into the stands. “We shall need Damien. He led the investigation pending your arrival. But wherever could he be? Come, we must find him.” She turned on her heal and walked out of the arena, Geralt and ladies in tow. They rounded the corner outside of the arena and begun walking towards the palace. “Tell us,” the duchess begun, filling the silence with what Geralt considered idle chatter, “have you come alone, or did Viscount Julian accompany you?” Geralt huffed, smiling fondly.

“Wish to see Dandelion, Your Grace?”

“Yes! I mean, no! Ugh. Yes.” She conceded, unhappily. “But solely to tell him we regret – yes, deeply regret – rescinding the death sentence we so justly handed down upon him. If we could turn back time, we would make certain he sat in a tower till he rotted – no, we would ensure he was broken on the wheel, then drawn, hanged and quartered!” Perhaps she’s still angry he wanted to leave thought Geralt as they made their way towards a small guard camp at the edge of the tourney grounds. A man stood there, stern and solid, glaring at nothing. Gotta be him. “Ah!” the duchess started, picking up on Geralt’s thoughts perhaps. “The very man we would entrust with these tasks – Damien de la Tour, captain of my personal guard.” The guards saluted as they walked up, and Damien turned to greet them.

“Your Grace. Witcher.” Damien greeted, bowing slightly with his hands behind his back. Respectful, stern. The duchess’s lap dog Geralt huffed internally.

“Greetings.” The witcher mumbled back, the captain’s uniform taking him back to Corvo Bianco, the weak hand of a broken guardsman clutching at his ankle. “Sorry to have to tell you, but the guardsmen handling the last victim’s body –“

“I know already.” Damien interrupted harshly. “The creature in the cellar at Corvo Bianco – was it the Beast?”

“No, a bruxa, a kind of vampire. Not the Beast, but tied to it in some way.” He brought his hand to his neck and fiddled with the bandages. He’d have to change them soon lest infection set in.

“You know this how?” Damien demanded, taking a threatening step towards Geralt.

“Through careful analysis of the evidence, both on the riverbank and at Corvo Bianco.” Damien was practically chest to chest with him, reminding Geralt of a strutting peacock, or maybe a rooster.

“Do you mean to insinuate the investigation thus far has been sloppy?” Yes. The duchess waved Damien away and he staggered back slowly.

“Geralt insinuates nothing of the sort. We must listen to him attentively.” Geralt shifted in his stance and locked Damien in a piercing, and he hoped threatening, gaze.

“I examined the body of the Beast’s last victim. Might’ve found something, need to analyse it. A quiet place – that’s what I could use most right now. And maybe the help of an alchemist or a mage.” Damien started off towards the tent, back turned to Geralt. Rude much? “Also like to hear all you know about the previous victims. Take it Sir de la Tour’s my man for that?”

“Firstly, call me Damien please. Secondly, you should know I spoke against summoning you here.” Really? I never would have known, Geralt thought sarcastically. He was tempted to vocalise this but Damien continued. “I’ve heard much about you. You bring trouble, or thus far have, always. And we’ve enough trouble as it is. Yet we are capable of defeating the Beast on our own, without an outsider’s help. I’ve no doubt about it.” And there it was, the accusations of the plague of trouble that followed him wherever he went. The more he heard it, the more the notion seemed to take root in the cervices of his mind and draw nutrients from every thought that entertained the notion that somehow he, cursed witcher that he is, is the one causing the problems, not fixing the problems that existed already.

“Damien,” the duchess warned sternly, “we settled the matter of the witcher’s employ some time past. Definitively. Since you have broached it nonetheless, let us discuss Geralt’s pay.” She turned to Geralt and her cheeks blossomed into rosy buds. “Are the legends true? Do witchers usually demand “that which you find at home, yet did not expect?” Geralt smiled at her question. Not something he expected to be answering today.

“Not quite, Your Grace. Law of Surprise… it’s something we invoke at times, but rarely. I’ve got two children. Not likely to risk getting a third. Usually we just take the gold.”

“Disappointing. This “law” sounds rather romantic. On the other hand, on returning to the palace we would likely find impatient petitioners or a set of sample fabrics for a new dress. Poor rewards, both. I fear you’d not have much use for any of the surprises we are likely to come upon. Though you would not need to fear another child. Thus we’ve decided you shall receive the deed to a vineyard, Corvo Bianco, and a sum of coin. You will doubtless consider this adequate.” Oh great the morgue. Fitting reward for a witcher. “Title to the vineyard shall be given to you at once – surely you’ll need lodgings while you hunt. The coin, however, will be yours only once you have slain the Beast.” A servant with the deed on a pillow walked towards Geralt, key resting on top. Geralt took the key and pocketed it.

“Lovely, generous gesture, Your Grace. But, uh, Corvo Bianco – isn’t that the duchy’s temporary morgue?” He folded the deed and put it in his satchel. This would have to go somewhere safe later.

“Is it now?” The duchess asked, confused. “The chancellery’s bungled things again, we fear! Not to be left unsupervised for one instant! Yet in its mood a morgue should present minimal problems to a witcher. What’s more, nothing enhances a wine’s reputation better than a grim legend.” Geralt hummed appreciatively. Never had a home besides Kaer Morhen if you could count that. Might be a welcome change of pace after this is all over.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I accept the contract, of course. But as I said before, I’ll need some information.” He turned to Damien who was hunched over a table, hands planted firmly and face turned away from the witcher. “How’d it start?” Geralt asked to the captain’s judgemental back. “Who was the first victim?”

“Crespi was the first to die. He was famed once for his many glorious tournament victories. Then he grew old, hung up his sword and took to wine making.” Damien explained, not bothering to turn around. Geralt thought that sounded nice. Could see that in his future perhaps.

“Crespi was not loved by the wine merchants – he was ruthless in business and thought to cheat many a time. He asked us for a dispensation from all court ceremonies. We did not grant it, we could not. Once you’ve taken the oath of a knight, you remain a knight till death.” The duchess continued the account and Geralt thought there might be a lesson in there somewhere.

“How’d he die?” the witcher asked curiously. “Where’d they find the body?”

“Quite unusual, the circumstance.” Damien revealed. “He was at a feast when suddenly one of his fellow feast goers noticed he was missing. The Town Watch found him an hour later – on his hands and knees, propped against the town pillory, his sword hanging from his neck. He had died of wounds inflicted by claws, not a weapon. Blows of great force.” That fits with the Beast’s MO, de la Croix was killed in the same way.

“So he died suddenly – but the body was on its knees. Meaning someone posed it.” Sentient, thinking, clever monster. A taste for metaphor, humiliation.

“So it seems.” Damien stated shortly.

“Second murder – tell me what you know.”

“In the city there are certain nooks, no one reasonable ventures there after dark, Ramon du Lac’s corpse was found in one such place. With the first murder, terror gripped the city. Its inhabitants grew wary, kept to safe areas. Consequently, news of the second victim came to us from a group of concerned… cutpurses.”

“Criminals fear the Beast? Telling, in a way. Take it you’ve excluded the possibility that Ramon died at the hands of these bandits.” Damien turned, red faced and short of breath.

“Do you believe me an amateur? Not hands, but claws killed Ramon du Lac. The wound was deep, clean. “

“His body was found in a gutter, dressed in nightshirt and cap, a pillow placed under his head and his sword replaced by a bed warmer. Ramon du Lac! A knight who but a dozen years past was an advisor to our father, the duke.” Humiliation again. Beast’s trying to point something out. But what?  
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to make him look ridiculous. Maybe revenge was the motive?” Damien hummed into his gloved hand, drawing it over his chin.

“It’s not out of the question. Du Lac had shady dealings with the criminal underworld, but no one ever came forth with concrete proof of any misdoings.” Hm. Escaped the law. This about justice maybe?

“So,” the witcher started, pulling the puzzle pieces together from the corners of his mind, “first two victims were knights, best years behind them.”

“The same could be said of the third.” Damien added quickly. “Sir de la Croix was wont to claim that in modern times knights face new challenges, enterprise being the latest addition to the chivalric virtues.”

“He made a veritable fortune in the grain trade.” The duchess explained. “Palmerin even nicknamed him Sir de la Stingy.”

“Found a coin pouch on his body. Contained florens, dating from various times, hailing from different provinces of the empire.”

“De la Croix loved coin, true, but had no patience for numismatics.”

“Lots of similarities between the victims. All the bodies found in strange places, under extraordinary circumstances. Seems the murderer, whoever or whatever it is, has some meaning to convey.”

“These were honourable men. We are horrified by the disdain, the disrespect with which they were treated. These were knights of Toussaint, blast it!” Anger bubbled in her voice and threatened to spill over, but grief settled in her eyes and she hung her head instead. Geralt took this moment to collect his thoughts. Hm maybe the peasants are right. Perhaps the humiliation is bringing attention to a lack of one of the virtues. Like the seven deadly sins. He was bombarded by a memory of Cas claiming he would ‘speed run the seven deadly sins’ as soon as he got out of Kaer Morhen. Greed, Pride, Gluttony, Lust, Envy, Sloth, and Wrath. Geralt had asked him how he was going to go about pride. Cas said he would be proud of himself for ‘speed running’ the other six. Perhaps this was like that, but the virtues in place of the sins.

“Might be the point. From what you say: none was a model of virtue. Ever considered that’s what the Beast’s trying to draw attention to?”

“All the murdered men were knights who swore fealty to the five chivalric virtues. And even if th-“

“Knights of Toussaint swear fealty to what virtues exactly?” Geralt interrupted.

“Honour, wisdom, generosity, valour, and compassion.” The duchess replied swiftly. Geralt hummed and took a step closer, sensing that perhaps Damien was not the crucial source of information in this investigation.

“Five virtues – why’re they so important to your knights?”

“Strange question.” She responded, confusion licking at her words.

“Your Grace, forgive me. I’m a foreigner trying to understand another land’s customs.” The witcher apologised. Perhaps he could have read about Toussaint before coming but he had never had the patience for that.

“You are forgiven. According to legend the virtues we cultivate were bestowed upon us by the Lady of the Lake. How we truly came to espouse them, none remember. In Toussaint we believe men of low birth should be simple-hearted and obedient. We expect much more, however, of our knights. They are to be soldiers and courtiers, lords and servants. Thus the need for clear moral guidelines. At the time of his dubbing, a knight vows to demonstrate, throughout his life, honour, wisdom, generosity, valour and compassion.”

“So no class mobility? Yikes.” Commented a familiar voice. Cas trotted up on Honey, sliding from the saddle elegantly. “Your Grace.” He bowed low, offering Geralt a cheeky smile. The elder witcher knew of his distaste for royalty and the upper class, but he was capable of being polite. Sometimes.

“May we know with whom we are having the pleasure of speaking to?” The duchess replied.

“Caßiel, witcher.” He replied shortly, walking closer to the pair. “Hey, dad, if you want I can set you up a space at camp, I’m just heading into town for a blood ru- Food. Food run. Getting food. That’s what I’m doing.” Geralt eyed him suspiciously. They would definitely have a talk.

“Duchess just granted me an estate. Maybe you could bring my saddle bags there. It’s Corvo Bianco near-“

“I know. Been around here a while. I’ll see to it that it’s cleaned up by the time you actually get to rest there. Been a while since I’ve had to clean a house. There’s no magic vacuum cleaner is there? I’ll give Yennefer a call. Good luck on the hunt.” He took his xenovox – actually it was Geralt’s xenovox from Keira but not that it matters now – and started backing away.

“You don’t wanna help?” Geralt asked after him. Also what’s a vacuum cleaner?

“Later, you can handle this on your own. But I’d get a move on. He likes to hunt at twilight. Your Grace.” He bowed again and made his way over to Roach, untethering her saddle bags in preparation for Corvo Bianco. Geralt threw the key at the back of Cas’ head and Cas caught it skilfully. “Still got it!”

“I take it that’s your son.” The duchess observed distastefully. “Will he be helping with the investigation?”

“Probably. He’s likely to stick his nose in any business that doesn’t belong to him.” Geralt admitted. “So let’s recap. Beast seems to be pointing up moral decay, denouncing it. Victims were all humiliated. Might’ve been murdered to emphasise their lack of specific chivalric virtues.” The witcher suggested.

“Honour compromised by the pillory, wisdom by ridicule, generosity by a coin pouch shoved down a throat… It seems to fit, true, through not perfectly.” Damien ridiculed.

“Can’t discount the theory if it’s on the lips of everyone in town. Say our reasoning’s right – next murder’ll be just as showy and denounce the victim’s lack of the fourth virtue – valour. We can also assume that victim’ll be an elder knight.”

“Let’s think…” the duchess begun, turning away from the men. “At the moment, all the knights are either at the tourney grounds or in the palace gardens. Our annual Hare Hunt shall begin there shortly. Have you heard of the custom?” She asked politely, looking pointedly at Geralt.

“Milton mentioned something. Seemed excited to prance around in a bunny costume, not sure why. Hang on… Strange circumstances, a knight advanced in years, the famed cowardice of rabbits…” Everything snapped together so suddenly Geralt was afraid his mind might get whiplash.

“Could it be that simple?” exclaimed the duchess, wringing her hands. “Is Milton de Peyrac-Peyran the next victim?”

“Milton also knew de la Croix. Told me so, down by the river.”

“Damien! To miss something so obvious!” She chided. “De Peyrac-Peyran, Crespi, de la Croix and du Lac formed a knightly team! It was years ago, but…”

“They were a team?” the witcher asked.

“They were close friends, tightly knit. And as such earned the trust of our father, the duke. We often witnessed him turn to them with delicate matters. Later, their paths diverged.”

“Unlikely to be a coincidence. Beast must know it, too. It’s a lead. I’m sure. Your Grace, we need to find Milton. Immediately.” Geralt squinted into the sky, the sun was a hand and a half from the horizon, it would be twilight soon, they had to hurry.

“Rather problematic. You see, the garden entertainments are due to start, and he’s disguised as the Hare, hiding somewhere, waiting for some tipsy courtiers to find him. The Hare’s hiding place is a carefully-guarded secret.”

“We must call off the game, at once!” Damien ordered, panic leaking through his gruff exterior.

“First and foremost, we must remain calm.” The duchess suggested, “Damien, order the gardens searched, immediately but discreetly. By no means can we disrupt the festivities. Panic will only incite the Beast to strike sooner.” Damien nodded and walked off quickly, gesturing for his guards to follow him. “And you, witcher, follow me! My gardens, my knight, I shall take the fore. A murder is out of the question. I will not allow it! Not near my palace!” She looked up to the castle, determination colouring her grey eyes with a dark steel that hardened and sharpened like a sword. “Horses! Ready our horses!” She went to walk off quickly, but stepped on the fine fabric of her dress, she gritted her teeth and tore the fabric asunder, ripping it from her bodice. Her ladies shrieked in horror and hurried after her like frightened hens. Geralt had never had the pleasure of seeing the duchess’ butt, but now that he had all the mystery was gone and he was left feeling a little hollow. Perhaps it was the memories that this place had forced to emerge that tempered his usual interest, or the emotions tied to those memories that confused and upset him and could no longer be explored or entertained despite his fear to do so. He ran after her, calling for Roach. The duchess grabbed a horse and a man went to grab her.

“What the hell? Why, I shall-“ She turned to him, one foot in the stirrup. “Your Highness! I –“ She handed him the fabric from her dress forcefully.

“Mind it doesn’t get wrinkled.” She hopped into the saddle and urged the horse on, racing beside Geralt up through the town and into the Palace grounds like lightning and thunder there was not a single thing that could stop her in that moment and none would have dared.




When they had reached the garden, the duchess had explained that Geralt was to find clues on a unicorn and a golden fish then had raced off to find the phoenix egg. Now the witcher returned to the phoenix egg garden with a unicorn horn and key from the golden fish statue in hand. The duchess was standing in front of a couple, hand extended expectantly. It seems she had not found the egg, but was instead demanding it from some poor courtier who had no idea, Geralt imagined, what was going on.

“If it please, Your Grace…” the moderator tried to soothe before being shot down by her cold gaze and impossibly colder words.

“We do not please. We act out of the highest necessity. All shall be explained later.” The lady held the egg close to her chest, unwilling to give it up.

“But it’s against the rules…” the moderator tried again, undeterred.

“I am the rules!” the duchess replied sternly, fixing the lady with a harsh gaze. She stepped slowly over and reluctantly handed the egg to the duchess. She nodded at the lady and promptly spied the witcher. “Geralt! At last!” He walked closer to her, clutching his items in hand.

“Got a key and a clue!” Were this not a dire time, Geralt thought he may have actually had fun finding them. Boyhood wonder was never something the witcher got to enjoy or explore but this scavenger hunt must be what it’s like, he thought.

“And I’ve another! Show me yours!” the duchess dropped the phoenix egg on the ground and brought the clue over to Geralt. “Who wrote this drivel?! ‘I begin like a graon hollowed out with ease, then end like a mouse with a head of hard cheese.’” Geralt hummed, brow furrowing.

“Let’s see. ‘Groan’ with e’s gives us ‘green’ right? And ‘mouse’ with a head of ‘hard cheese’…? Green-house?” He suggested tentatively.

“You’re a genius!” the duchess exclaimed. “Several greenhouses in the garden, indeed! But only one with a door that locks! The key to which looks just like the one we found!”

“Greenhouse it is, then. Let’s go.” They ran off toward the greenhouse, the duchess making her way expertly through the gardens. They stopped outside. The sun had long dipped below the horizon, twilight far gone, and the inside of the greenhouse was dark and quiet. He flung an arm out to stop the duchess.

“Wait here.” He ordered, marching quietly ahead. She exclaimed in exasperation, but stayed where she was, hands on hips. The witcher fitted the key into the lock and turned ever so carefully, pushing the door open as he did. As he stepped into the dark embrace of the greenhouse, he saw a clawed humanoid figure rise from the ground. He was clad in a black knee-length coat with similarly raven hair that dangled loosely to his shoulders. He turned suddenly to spy Geralt, his bat-like features accentuated by the moonlight. A higher vampire. The Beast went to run as Geralt drew his silver sword, leaping out the window and into the night. Geralt had not a moment to mourn the loss of Milton, an old friend and a gentle man that reminded Geralt of another, he too lost to time though he was never supposed to be. Geralt felt his foot hit the bannister and he was jumping down a cliff after the vampire before he could register what he was doing. He rolled as he hit the ground and kept running. He pushed some merchants aside and jumped over another the Beast had pulled to the ground. Geralt stumbled at a ledge, barely managing to keep his balance as the vampire turned to mist and floated across the lake. He landed on some barrels and looked back at the witcher, taunting him, wondering how far would this man go. Geralt took a few quick steps back and ran, jumping at the last second and landing on the mast of a boat. He wobbled as it fell sideways towards the water and jumped onto the barrels where the Beast had been moments ago. The vampire fled quickly into a warehouse with Geralt hot on his heels, but the witcher stopped by the door to catch his breath. Collecting himself, he pushed open the frail wooden door and stepped cautiously inside. He lowered his stance, drawing his silver sword as he had done many a time before, but in his heart he knew that this time would turn out differently. Fighting a higher vampire? What was he thinking? It’s immortal, invincible, fast, and dangerous. It’s a death sentence. He snuck quietly into the centre of the warehouse and was greeted by a low voice from the rafters.

“I am here.” The vampire announced, claws sheathed and face returned to a mimicry of humanoid. Geralt took the hand from his satchel, holding it up for the vampire to see.

“This belong to you maybe?” He asked, a little disgusted by the congealed blood that had saturated his bag.

“It did. But you may keep it. I’ve a new one. I do not know you. I’ve done you no harm. Yet first you butchered a bruxa who was dear to me. Now you pursue me. Why?” The vampire crouched, intending to look the witcher in the eye, but he found not eyes, but holes burning with hatred.

“Killed Ava because she gave me no choice. Said some things about my son I didn’t like to hear. As for you, you’ve killed four innocent people. At least.”

“And you?” the vampire probed. “How many innocents have you cut down?”

“Not here to talk about me.” The witcher avoided the question expertly. When the known world attaches the moniker ‘the Butcher of Blaviken’ to your name, you tend to get good at avoiding those types of questions.

“Yet that is exactly what we are doing. So , did they send you after me? Who are they?” Wait what? Now that was… odd.

“What do you mean ‘they’? Duchess hired me. You’ve been murdering her subjects.” The vampire paced on the rafters, chuckling to himself.

“Is it as simple as that? I would ask you to convey to the duchess that I’ve but one victim left, but…” the vampire unsheathed his long claws, his face contorting and fangs lengthening obscenely. Geralt had seen it before, but it wasn’t something one gets used to. “You’ll not get the chance.” He turned to vapour, appearing behind Geralt and lunging for him. The witcher spun out of his way on practiced feet and landed in a low stance, facing the vampire. Geralt cast quen quickly and spun away again as red mist materialised into a desperate, snarling vampire. When the Beast next lunged for him, Geralt ducked under his claws and brought his silver sword down on his back, taking a dimerteritium bomb and shoving it down the back of the vampire’s jacket. The witcher rolled away as the bomb went off, but when he looked back the vampire was gone. He turned, confused, with his sword raised high. He heard the Beast land behind him and thought maybe in his split second I can bring my sword up, I can parry him and roll away and hit him again with a bomb. Maybe I don’t have to die here. He heard a splattering sound and a loud groan and shook himself from the focus of battle, a man was there, the Beast’s claw through his chest. He had taken the blow for Geralt and the witcher’s heart dropped. The man brought his hand to the Beast’s head, clutching at his hair. The Beast snarled, hand writhing in out the man’s back.

“You were to stay where you were. Regenerate.” The Beast spat, trying to pull his hand out of the other man’s chest.

“I know you’re in trouble. I can help.” That voice. So familiar, Geralt thought idly.

“I’ll help myself.” The Beast tried to lunge for Geralt, but the man tugged back on his hair.

“No. He’s my m- my friend.” The man hoarsely stumbled over the words and it was then Geralt knew. He felt as though something had crawled up from his belly and lodged itself in his throat, a hard lump that only bobbed when he tried to swallow around it and it threatened to make his eyes water. Not from the pain of the sensation, mind, but from the relief he felt in that moment. Regis.

The Beast pulled his gloved hand from Regis’ stomach and turned to mist, floating out from the warehouse in what Geralt assumed was a huff. The hole that had been put in Regis’ chest begun to close as the vampire, his old friend, a kind and gentle man, afraid of werewolves and enraptured by the making of mandrake hooch. Who had burnt alive in front of Geralt’s eyes. He was here. Surely the witcher was dreaming as a small, fond smile crept onto the vampire’s face. Surely he was imagining how the other man showed his fangs ever so slightly, unafraid of how Geralt would react. Surely someone would wake him, any second, he would be on the roadside or in Kaer Morhen with Lambert or Cas shaking him from another fitful rest. But then the vampire spoke and Geralt didn’t care if it was a dream or his imagining and he struggled against tears that had been threatening to slip from his grasp since the vampire’s death.

“Yes, Geralt. It’s me.” Regis said simply, aware, Geralt knew, of the witcher’s disbelief.

“Regis…? I... You all right?” The witcher was aware that his voice sounded choked, croaky even, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Regis chuckled and looked down at his own chest.

“All is well, all’s in order. Wounds such as these heal on vampires in moments. But we’ve not seen one another in ages, my friend. At least in human terms, that is.”

“How’s this even possible? Last I saw you -“ Geralt’s shock was replaced by surprise, a different yet similar emotion, with less teeth he thought. Surprise was pleasant, and so was what caused it. He felt Regis’ arms surround him and the witcher melted. Any illusion of control he had vanished and his body shook silently as his eyes made wet patches on Regis’ coat. Geralt brought his arms up to clutch feebly at the vampire’s back and he felt Regis rub circles on his back under his scabbards.

“I was a bubbling, shapeless smear, having been rather spectacularly melted into a column of a certain castle. In somewhat better shape now, as you can see.” Regis soothed, continuing his ministrations. “Hardly peak form, mind you, but were I human, folk would think me a demigod, I daresay.” Geralt chuckled wetly, sniffing. The witcher pulled away, wiping his nose on the back of his glove.

“I’m sorry.” He managed weakly. “What happened – it was my fault. Never got a chance to apologise.” Regis smiled sadly and gently wiped the tears away from his cheeks with a slow swipe of his thumb. The witcher longed to bring his hand up to the vampire’s, cupping it against his jaw and leaning into it. And as much as that urge startled and confused him, he also longed for it deeply.

“No need, Geralt.” The vampire’s hand dropped from his face and the moment was lost. “Bygones. I did not have to join you on that expedition. No one twisted my arm.” He lead the witcher over to a stack of boxes and gestured for him to sit on the box opposite. Geralt sat, their knees brushing lightly.

“Miraculous regeneration – how’d you manage it.?” He asked, taking keen note of the vampire’s face. He’d aged since they’d last seen each other, his once raven hair now a dark grey, and his clean-shaven face now sported mutton chops. His eyes looked sunken and tired but they glinted with mirth as they always had. A small smile made its way onto his face. He supposed he had aged too.

“I had help.” Regis revealed, breaking Geralt from his musings. “From the one you hunt.”

“Him?” Geralt felt something ugly take root in his stomach and claw at the lining. It was an emotion he would rather not name. Naming it made it real. “How? And what’ve you been doing all these years?”

“Not the time nor place for such stories. I suspect we’ll get a chance to speak at ease and at length later. Now, however, we must deal with the reason that brought us both here.”

“So you being here, it’s no coincidence…”

“Your powers of deduction seem to have waned not one bit, I’m happy. I came here for Dettlaff. I fear he’s become entangled, landed himself in serious trouble.” Regis’ brow furrowed, concern distorting his features. The witcher wanted to reach up and soothe him, but he waited too long and the moment yet again, passed.

“So that’s his name? He’s your… friend?” Geralt couldn’t articulate why, not then, not in that moment, but the idea of Dettlaff being anything more made him feel ill. A metaphorical pitchfork to the stomach.

“You might call it that.” Regis started, Geralt thought he was going to be sick. What was Dettlaff to him? Geralt shook himself from that thought process. It was weird to care about a friend’s relationships like that. “Though Dettlaff is… how would humans put it… more bestial than I am. But not to worry, I’m working on him.” Geralt huffed a small laugh.

“Haven’t exactly done a great job with that. He’s killed one knight since I got here, least three others before I arrived.”

“For good reason, I’m sure. Understand,” he grabbed Geralt’s hands in his own, urging him to listen, “Dettlaff is not some decadent shit who kills for sport or to assuage a dryness of throat or a dullness of mood.” Geralt swallowed thickly, mouth suddenly dry.

“So in your opinion, what’re his reasons?” The witcher forced out, almost breathless.

“Precisely what I wish to find out. And then I will convince him of the error of his ways.” Always the optimist the witcher chuckled. It seemed unrealistic considering their interaction earlier, but Regis would find a way.

“Got a lot of faith in the guy.” Regis fumbled with Geralt’s hands holding them impossibly tighter.

“Despite appearances to the contrary, you two are quite alike. You’ve both noble hearts yet you both are wont to perform ignoble deeds – when circumstances force you to, of course…” The vampire dropped his hands, and stood walking over to the window where the full moon shone through and highlighted his striking features. An urge to caress him like the moonlight did bubbled up from somewhere deep in Geralt’s subconscious and he beat it down immediately, taking his eyes away from Regis and instead stared intently at his hands. “Remember the year 964?” Regis asked.

“That was three centuries ago…” Geralt pointed out. How old did Regis think he was?

“Blind fear gripped Rivia, Lyria, and Spalla. Women and children were dying, their mutilated, dismembered corpses littered the fields.” Geralt hummed.

“Brute of Lyria – read about it. Chewed up almost two hundred, then fell to a common poacher supposedly armed with a dagger blessed by some prophet…” Regis turned to face him, moonlight now acting as a backlight. A halo maybe. Geralt beat it down again. He could freak out over this later.

“It fell to Dettlaff. Who then found a poacher asleep in the brush near his snares and dropped the fiend’s corpse at his feet. And thus, a legend was born.”

“Hm. Vampires rarely help humans. Must’ve had his own agenda, hunting the beast.” Geralt moved to stand next to Regis in the cool breeze blowing in from the window. The vampire smiled fondly.

“You err. He slew it for one reason alone – the monster killed a lad who once, in the street, had offered Dettlaff an apple, expecting nothing in return.”

“Terribly noble of him.” Geralt grunted.

“You do not have a monopoly on altruism, my friend. Vilgefortz melted my body. Dettlaff found what was left. As per our codex, he had a choice – to leave me where I was, or to care for me, nurture my remains. He chose the latter. Regenerated me at no small expense in his own blood. Do you know what that means to a vampire, the gravity of the endeavour?”

“Probably same thing it means to a human. You owe him your life.” Regis shook his head.

“Much more than that. The act itself made us blood brethren, a bond so strong humans cannot even imagine. Which is why I know something ill is afoot.” Blood brethren. Like a brother. Geralt felt that ugly thing that had wrapped itself around his gut dissolve and instead a new lightness filled his chest. Brothers.

“Always had an overdeveloped sense of empathy.” Regis hummed thoughtfully at that.

“Each vampire has a unique talent. One they hone over centuries. It’s precisely what renders us so difficult to classify. Dettlaff’s trump card is his herd instinct, his tribal propensity. In point of fact, he prefers the company of lesser vampires and shuns that of humans.”

“Met one of his vampire buddies. A bruxa called Ava.”

“Ah yes, I do recall him being quite fond of her. How is she?”

“She’s dead. Didn’t give me a choice. It was me or her. Said some awful things I don’t understand about someone close to me.”

“I should like to hear all about it later when we’ve the time to talk at ease. Dettlaff must be very upset. She was quite dear to him. Point in fact, if he walks among you, killing egregiously, it can only mean something’s upset him. Immensely.”

“Anything specific,” Geralt asked, “some set of things that’d be likely to set him off?”

“How should I say this…” Regis pondered, hand coming to rest on the windowsill mere centimetres from Geralt’s. “Dettlaff doesn’t understand men, their world, its rules, its conventions. He’s naïve, in a sense. He doesn’t comprehend your games, knows not what it means to lie, deceive.”

“Suggesting he’s maladjusted… and venting his rage?” Geralt thought that perhaps that excuse wouldn’t fly with the duchess. To be honest it barely flew with him. Not understanding a thing is bad to do doesn’t mean its right to do it, nor does it maintain your innocence.

“I’m suggesting maladjustment can at times breed conflict. But is it the case this time? I cannot say… but intend to find out.” Geralt hummed gruffly, taking his hand from where it had been inching towards Regis’ and pulling it over his face.

“Gotta find him. Before something upsets him even more and all Beauclair is awash with blood.” Regis smiled and grasped Geralt’s shoulder firmly.

“Well, we share a cause, then. Just like the old days.” The witcher’s hand came up tentatively to rest over the top of the vampire’s, but as soon as it had, he dropped it.

“Not entirely. I mean, when I find him, you know…” Regis huffed a small laugh, maybe at the thought that Geralt might try to kill a higher vampire. But Regis didn’t know what Geralt did.

“I know you’ve a contract on his head. Yet your true task is to stop the Beast killing, not necessarily to kill the Beast, am I right?” The duchess was going to have his head for this.

“All in all, sure.” The witcher conceded, this time grasping the vampire’s shoulder in return. This was appropriate. This was friendly. This was not enough.

“Let us find him. By the time we do, I hope I’ll have convinced you Dettlaff is no monster.” Regis pulled Geralt into another, less wet hug, and the witcher clung to him fiercely.

“Fine,” Geralt grumbled into Regis’ shoulder, “all right already. But for now, evidence is stacking up against him…” In a distant corner of his mind he registered the sound of hooves on uneven cobblestones, the clanking of guards in their ill-fitting armour. Regis pulled from the hug, leaving the witcher cold and in the wake of a new feeling. Dissatisfaction he thought this must be.

“Hear that?” The witcher nodded, turning to the door.

“The posse. Knights must’ve tracked me here.” The vampire brushed Geralt’s elbow, getting his attention.

“I’d prefer they not find me here. I’ve a makeshift quarters at Mère-Lachaiselongue cemetery. We’ll meet there.” Geralt grasped the vampire’s elbow in return, nodding in farewell.

“See you” It was then that Regis turned to mist, floating up through the rafters and out a higher window, leaving Geralt alone with his thoughts. It was weird, he thought, that he wanted to hold the vampire. It wasn’t friendly or appropriate it was something else entirely and it scared him. But it also excited him in the most terrifying way.

“Witcher!” Palmerin burst through the door, saving Geralt from his thoughts and accursed feelings. “We flew here fast as our coursers would carry us. Yet I fear we’re late all the same! Pray, where is the Beast?” Palmerin’s men came through the door, wandering around the warehouse aimlessly. Gotta get them out of here.

“Still investigating, about to inspect this site. Withdraw your men before they trample all over the evidence.” Palmerin stuttered and turned to his men.

“Ahem, sirs! We must let the witcher do his work. Milton’s murder cannot go unavenged.” The knights made their way to the door and back towards the palace. Geralt had thought that the world had put him here to kill the Beast, but the reason, he found, could never be as simple.


End file.
